Pastelland Forum

Photographs
It was unforeseen that I was to go up and clear the attic,
Never to anticipate what I was to behold.
It was a photo album,
Withered and aged.
The sight itself sparked many memories,
When I opened it I went back to a time long-forgotten,
A peaceful childhood,
Away from the disturbances of modern society.

How could I have forgotten,
The afternoons in verdure meadows and forests of the country?
How could I have forgotten,
The time spent with friends under the blue skies?
How could I have forgotten,
The peace of my childhood?

Alas, I was not there,
Yet it became my utmost desire.
It convinced me to return to the land of my upbringing.
Upon my arrival I was welcomed by a sense of unity,
An internal peace,
A sense of belonging.
It was a couple of photographs that brought me home.

Memorial Bells
Large bells supported by a wooden frame,
Litter the arid plain,
Where vegetation is limited,
And whatever remains,
Suffers from an eternal thirst.

Where are those who would chime this lifeless place?

A sense of abandonment plagues the air,
With that abandonment, however, a vision.
I can imagine a time when these bells were tolled,
Chiming in unity,
Animating the landscape.
The thought does not fail to haunt me,
And at the same time allure me;
What happened to those people who built these bells?
That tolled them?
And who quenched this land’s thirst for life?
But alas, they are no longer present,
And I stand here awing what was the past.

Here, is what remains,
Of an age,
Long forgotten,
Bells of differing sizes,
Supported by wooden frames,
The only relics that remain in its memory.

The Forest of Sanctuary
In the forest,
The birds sang,
Flutes whistled,
And a gentle breeze caused the leaves to dance,
All in a little village high above the valley floor.
A small village nestled in one the branches of the trees,
The ones rose to unfathomable heights,
Like many that existed within the forest.

The trees provide shelter,
While the sun provides a gentle warmth.
Softly bathing them in light,
And awakening much life.

It is a scene that awes all who visit,
The tranquil life of it’s inhabitants,
Unspoiled,
And unnoticed.

English Folk Verse (c.1870)

The Fifth of November

Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot;
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!
Guy Fawkes and his companions
Did the scheme contrive,
To blow the King and Parliament
All up alive.
Threescore barrels, laid below,
To prove old England's overthrow.
But, by God's providence, him they catch,
With a dark lantern, lighting a match!
A stick and a stake
For King James's sake!
If you won't give me one,
I'll take two,
The better for me,
And the worse for you.
A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,
A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,
A pint of beer to wash it down,
And a jolly good fire to burn him.
Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!
Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!
Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!

The World Continues to Spin
The World continues to spin

Yet for some
It has stop

For others
It a blur

Most feel
Its not fast enough

Very few little
View its future rotation

A Majority
Writes the Plans
For its foreshadow Turns

But the World continues to spin
Despite the people it shelters